False Advertising
by ravenscaronff
Summary: Office AU. Sherlock is John's mentor / boss at an advertising agency and they get it on. Mature readers only, please!
1. The First Salvo

**The First Salvo**

Mary Morstan, VP of Human Resources at Creative Nexus Limited addressed her audience.

'Thank you all for joining us this morning. We are here to discuss the charges laid by Mr. John Watson, newly appointed AVP of the Asia-Pacific division of Creative Nexus Limited, against Mr. Sherlock Holmes, head of the Euro-Americas division.

'Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson has charged you with sexual assault and career sabotage. Those are very serious charges. Would you like make an opening statement?'

'Fiction', a low, contemptuous voice rang out in the otherwise quiet room.

Sherlock Holmes, tall, thin, imperious and very, very male, sat low in his chair at the round table in the middle of the enormous board room, one ankle resting on the other knee as he regarded the twelve members of the executive management of Creative Nexus seated stiffly around the table. Blatantly flouting the corporate dress code, he was, in contrast, dressed in black slacks, a purple silk shirt, no tie, and a black velvet jacket. He looked stunning. He also looked bored.

His icy, gray eyes swept derisively over Mary to stop on a man sitting beside her.

'Mr. Watson has allowed his imagination to run away with him. Were he half as creative with his campaigns, his accounts could have tripled their billings', he drawled, still watching the man.

'_Thank you_, Mr. Holmes. You will be given a chance respond to each allegation presented by Mr. Watson and his legal team. I see you have chosen to represent yourself. I must ask you again for the record – do you wish to avail of legal counsel?'

'Ms. Morstan', his eyes returned to the woman while his words travelled on sonic icicles to the rest of the room. 'This is an _HR_ inquiry and we are sitting before the executive management of Creative Nexus, an advertising agency, not a court of law. For the record, I do _not_ need legal counsel. Could we just get on with this _circus act_ please?'

'We shall, Mr. Holmes. And I'll thank you to keep your personal opinions of these proceedings to yourself. Mr. Watson, John, would you like to present your opening statement?'

A throat cleared and Sherlock's eyes snapped again to the man on her right. John Watson straightened in his chair. Physically smaller than Sherlock but no less impressive, his ensemble was a study in complement and contrast - a navy blue suit that, Sherlock acknowledged grudgingly, perfectly set off his smalt eyes and beautifully offset his blond hair, a few locks of which spilled, very fetchingly, onto his forehead. He was dressed to kill and his quarry was Sherlock.

'Thank you, Mary.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the use of first names; he knew John was playing his charm-the-pants-off-the-woman game and they both knew it would work. Women found John irresistible. Well, _people_ found John irresistible and Mary was no exception. His bisexuality only made him more alluring to both sexes. Sherlock suspected John had already made _headway_ with Mary before this inquiry.

John cleared his throat again.

'Based on the events of the past year, I am convinced that Mr. Sherlock Holmes deliberately thwarted my attempts to advance my career at Creative Nexus beyond the position of Account Manager. We were engaged in a sexual relationship and it is my firm belief that he took undue advantage of our personal association and his position as my mentor to deny me career opportunities for which I was fully qualified. He effectively held me back in the same role for an entire year longer than required. It is also my belief that he indulged in nepotism by handing certain very large accounts, which I was perfectly capable of handling, to Mr. Victor Trevor.'

'And there is the matter of sexual assault?' Mary gently prodded.

'Uh…yeah, yes. Mr. Holmes forced himself on me against my wishes.'

'That was just last month, wasn't it?'

'Yes, and that is, in fact, the only reason I am bringing this to the attention of the board. I have been able to correct the _interferences _in my career but will not abide sexual assault.'

'Of what manner was the sexual assault? I'm sorry, John, I know this is difficult for you but we need to know.'

'It was…uh…'

'I fellated the man', Sherlock offered helpfully. He still looked bored but, John admitted with a shooting pang of shame, even more stunning as his lips curled into a smirk.

'Mr. Holmes, please.' Mary sounded shocked.

'Well, you asked, Mr. Watson wouldn't answer and so I did. I was, after all, present when said assault occurred', he huffed a laugh as his smirk widened. 'In case I was not clear, I performed oral sex on John Watson. I sucked him. Gave him a blow job.'

Anyone who thought he was finished was sorely mistaken because he added 'I gave him head', the biting, terminal 'd' resonating in the massive room, sounding impossibly more vulgar than an actual visual of the act would. 'Does that clarify the _manner_ of sexual assault?'

The board watched in shocked disbelief.

'It does, thank you very much', Mary interceded and shot him a glacial glare. 'John, you were, by your own admission, in a relationship with Mr. Holmes. Why was this not consensual? I must ask when the relationship was terminated.'

Sherlock, apparently, was still not finished.

'I am surprised', he continued, not waiting for John to respond, 'that Mr. Watson terms it _assault_ – he never had a problem with it before. And the relationship was not terminated at the time. Although I think it is safe to assume that it is, now.'

'Thank you, Mr. Holmes!' snapped an exasperated Mary. 'You will be given a chance to present your side of the argument. John?'

'Very simply, I didn't want it but he wouldn't stop. We were altercating; he overpowered me and, as he so eloquently put it, gave me a blow job. Against my wishes.'

'Uhm..Alright. We now have opening statements from both parties. I would like to proceed with examining the evidence and exhort both Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson to maintain decorum and professionalism at all times. We are one month from the AGM and I hope to conclude this most incommodious and unfortunate inquest at the earliest so that Management may return to the productive endeavours for which our shareholders hold them accountable.'

They were assembled in the sprawling meeting room on the seventy-second floor, aptly named Olympus as some days it was literally in the clouds.

Sherlock's eyes flicked over the attendees. Mary Morstan, apparently, was playing the role of Themis, Goddess of Justice, he thought with a smirk. Mike Stamford, his personal assistant, was assigned the task of scribe. That would make him…Hermes? Messenger of the gods. Yes, apposite…

Now John – John would have to be Apollo, God of the Sun. A bit small for the role but his blond hair certainly reminded Sherlock of sunlight and his mind's eye was filled with a montage of the lazy mornings when he had dragged his fingers through those soft locks, watching the rays of the sun shimmer through that raffish weave. A touch of regret tainted his visions. _Snap out of it!_ Hmm…so what did that make _him_? Dark haired, dour, forbidding, bleak and disliked. Simple. Hades, God of the Underworld. Perfect. He was pleased with his imaginary assignments of divinity. _I'm really good at this!_


	2. The First Lesson

**The First Lesson**

Chapter Summary: John gets a taste of Sherlock's teaching methods. We're getting into flashbacks.

* * *

Sherlock's musings were disrupted by the sound of John's voice. Ok, not Olympus then but Valhalla. Hall of the Slain. And John was here to ensure Sherlock's soul joined that distinguished pantheon of heroes. Or villains, in Sherlock's case.

'I joined Creative Nexus two years ago as an Account Manager. I was interviewed by Mr. Sebastian Wilkes, head of Asia-Pac and Mr. Jason Price, VP of Asia-Pac. I was, however, assigned to Mr. Holmes' team in the Euro-Americas division. My first assignments were three of Mr. Holmes' personal accounts, three of the largest accounts in London. It was a bumpy start. Very, very bumpy.'

* * *

Two years ago  
John gaped at his new boss, Sherlock Holmes, thinking back to what he'd heard about the legend.

Sherlock Holmes, twenty-nine, had joined Creative Nexus as a copywriter when he was twenty-one and had risen through the ranks on the strength of his brilliance and marketing genius. His portfolio consistently showed the highest YOY percentage growth in billings as well as the highest YOY increase in new client acquisition. He had the Midas touch.

It did not hurt that his predatory and absolutely effortless masculinity made willing slaves of his audience in any room he chose to enter. Photographs were left wanting in their approximation of the man's personal charisma.

John's unwary heart and cock were simultaneously felled by the singular set of his boss' exquisite features. His mind waxed poetic about his mentor's riotous curls, tumbling unbidden onto a distinguished forehead below which sat the two most hypnotic gray eyes John had ever seen, almond-shaped under thick, dark lashes and framed by proud eyebrows that tapered into chiseled cheekbones, giving their owner a haughty, regal appearance. His hungry blue eyes traced the sheer drop from sharp cheekbones to sunken cheeks that blossomed into soft, bow-shaped lips that John was sure were made for kissing. Just kissing. And more kissing. If a condom company was in need of a male model, Sherlock would be it. _Oh yes… sales would skyrocket. How's that for a marketing brainwave? _

Sherlock waited, thoroughly entertained by John's stupefied look as he conducted his very obvious appraisal. When it showed no signs of ending anytime soon, he broke the spell.

'Welcome, John. This is your office. Sarah here will help with your orientation. When you have had a chance to settle in, I'd like you to come to my office to discuss the projects I want you to lead. You can make an appointment with my assistant. Alright, I'll let you get settled in. All the best.'

'Thank you, Mr. Holmes.'

With that, Sherlock turned around and left John's office.

'I haven't met a single person whom Sherlock hasn't rendered speechless upon first meeting him. He's gorgeous, isn't he?' John heard a female voice say.

'Uh…yes, yes. He is quite handsome.' _Well done, Watson. "Quite handsome" was a masterly understatement. Sarah would have no idea._

'Uh...Ahem', the owner of the female voice cleared her throat.

John snapped out of his mid-morning sexual reverie and saw Sarah smiling at him, her eyes loaded with understanding.

'Let's get to work, shall we?' she asked.

The following day, John knocked on Sherlock's door.

'Come in', a baritone voice commanded.

'Good morning, Mr. Holmes.'

'Morning, John. How are you? How do you find Day 2 at Creative Nexus?'

'It's a bit overwhelming being the new guy but I'm excited about getting my hands dirty with real work.'

Sherlock smiled. He laid three dossiers on the table.

'Your projects. Three of our biggest clients in London. _My_ clients - I am personally responsible for them. I want you to study their new product line-up, their target clientele, market penetration, their competition…you know…basically everything, and come up with concepts for their campaigns, seasonal, year-round and anything else that you might want to suggest. You will work directly with me on these campaigns and we will meet again in two weeks to discuss your proposals. Sounds good?'

'Perfect, Mr. Holmes.'

'Any questions?'

'None at this time, sir.'

'Very well, let me not keep you then.'

'Thank you, Mr. Holmes.'

Two weeks later, John scheduled a second meeting with Sherlock through his assistant, Mike Stamford. Mike, a pleasant and rotund man, hit it off with John and they began to meet for drinks down at the local pub whenever they could grab a couple of hours after work. On the day of his presentation to Sherlock, John donned his best business attire, a navy blue suit with subtle gray stripes, a light pink shirt and a gray tie. If his presentation was as well laid out as he was, he knew he had a winner.

A deep and now familiar voice asked him to enter when he knocked on the door.

'Good morning, Mr. Holmes.'

'Come in, John.'

Sherlock sat behind his desk but was not alone – a woman stood beside him.

'Should I come back, Mr. Holmes?'

'No need. Irene, meet John Watson, our newest Account Manager. John, this is Irene Adler, Chief of Marketing at J&M Foods. Ms. Adler and I had a meeting just before this and I asked if she could stay back to hear you present your campaign for J&M Foods now.'

'Certainly, Mr. Holmes', John muttered, hooking up his laptop to the projector to begin his presentation.

If everything that was Sherlock Holmes were distilled into the female form, Irene Adler would be the result. Dark, intelligent eyes surveyed John as blood-red lips stretched into a lazy, pointed smile. Her stunning body was provocatively sheathed in a tight skirt-suit over a pale blouse with a plunging neckline. The only jewelry she had worn was a diamond bracelet on her right wrist which gave her the sexiest and most feminine look of being chained. John noted with jealousy, at the severity of which he himself was surprised, that her hand rested on Sherlock's shoulder in a suggestion of a familiarity that John was quite sure he hated. In the past, someone like Irene would have triggered his sexual sensibilities within seconds but, in the second surprise of self-discovery in the past five minutes, he found that with Sherlock in the room, everything and everyone else faded into insignificance. He had a bloody crush on his mentor. _Not good. Focus, Watson!_

'Irene, I haven't had a chance to review John's presentation but I'm sure it won't disappoint' Sherlock said, flashing a patently disingenuous smile at John.

John began to present his findings, going over market share, customer demographics and segmentation, competitive advantages, target market penetration and other facts and figures on the basis of which he had built his proposal for the publicity campaign. He ended his presentation with a flourish, his chest heaving with the confidence of a job well done.

Sherlock glanced at Irene and then languidly drew to his feet.

'Irene, I believe this campaign needs a bit of sprucing up. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to speak to John in private. I'll have Mike reschedule this meeting when we're ready to present again. I do apologize for this.'

'It's fine, Sherlock', she purred and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. 'He's new, go easy on him', she urged Sherlock in a stage whisper John was sure was intended to reach his ears.

'Bye, John!' she chirped and sashayed out of the room.

When Irene had left, Sherlock turned to John who stood hapless and stunned, unable to make sense of what had just happened.

'Did you actually do any research on this, John?'

'I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes. I don't understand.'

'It's a simple question. Did you do any research on this? At all?'

'I certainly did, Mr. Holmes. I laid out my findings in the presentation. Were there any particular aspects you wished elaborated?'

'John, this is very disappointing. I'm afraid I prematurely touted your abilities to Ms. Adler. Let's go over your research, then.'

And Sherlock began to demolish each of John's talking points individually, his analysis ruthless and impassive.

'Primary target customer: Female, aged 30 – 45, median annual income £65,000. What was your data collection method? How large was your sample set? What were your analysis procedures? Your measurement techniques?

'By going after your suggested target customer base, we limit ourselves to 20% of the workforce, leaving the remaining 80% for the competition to scavenge.'

'But Mr. Holmes…'

'I'm not finished, John. Please, do not interrupt me. As I was saying, your recommendations leave the vast majority of earning individuals open to the competition. Your campaign ideas are hackneyed and pedestrian and do not set us apart from the competition. You have not focused on the USP of the product – the fact that it is the only product of its kind to have received FSA approval. I could go on but it would be a waste of time.

'You have a week to make sure that the next draft is up to our usual standards. Thank you, John. That will be all.'

John's lips were bitten red and his cheeks were commensurately pink as he gathered his laptop and papers, thanked Sherlock and left that odious office. After dropping off his things in his office, he headed straight for the men's room, locked himself in a stall and leaned back against the thin metal wall, his chest heaving hard with huge, gulping breaths while his heart hammered in his chest. An uncontrollable tremor ran through his hands and he recognized the signs of a panic attack, knowing that his only option was to wait it out. A full ten minutes passed before his hands stopped trembling and he verbalized the worst possible outcome of this fiasco – he would be fired. Alright. He would be ready for that but first he would vindicate his presentation with that prick, Sherlock Holmes.

Thus resolved, he slowly unlocked the door of his stall and peered outside, relieved to be the only person in the washroom. He splashed water on his face, the coolth of the liquid soothing his heated cheeks and bringing some semblance of order to the chaos in his brain. He was patting his face dry when he heard the door to the washroom swing open. Lowering his face towel, his eyes caught the unmistakable stormy eyes of his Mentor-from-Hell in the mirror. _Male model for condoms? Not really. If Satan took human form, Sherlock would be it._

'John…'

'Excuse me, Mr. Holmes', he muttered, crushed the towel, tossed it in the bin and fled the washroom.

He met Mike for drinks at the pub and found himself confiding in his boss' assistant about his boss. He recounted his verbal flogging by Sherlock and was annoyed by Mike's unsurprised tut-tutting.

'Fuck, is that all you have to say?'

'John…Sherlock is one of the best in the business. He's also one of the toughest. I have never known him to simply rip someone a new one without a reason. He either thinks you're a total fuck-up or sees potential in you. But if he picked your presentation apart like you say he did, he definitely doesn't see you as _average_.'

'And that's supposed to make me feel better?'

'Not necessarily. He may still think of you as a total fuck-up', Mike laughed at his own completely inappropriate joke.

'Fuck you, Mike.'

'Yeah, I'm sorry. I'm not the best at humour.'

'No kidding.'

'Look, I'll tell you this. If you quit, there are fifty others who would kill for this job. But if you survive his unorthodox tutelage, you can work anywhere in the world in this business and take on whatever is thrown at you. The choice is yours. Sink or swim, mate.'

John thought over Mike's words. He was no quitter and although Sherlock had wounded his ego that day - obliterated it, actually - he knew his research and believed in it; he just needed to show Sherlock what he saw in it. He avoided running into Sherlock for the next couple of days while he worked on his defence. When he felt ready, he asked Mike for another appointment which, surprisingly, was available later that same week.

This time, Sherlock was alone in his office.

'Mr. Holmes, thank you for your time. My first presentation of the J&M campaign was less smooth than I had hoped but I stand by my research and recommendations. I have sought this appointment with you to provide additional information in support of my analysis. I trust that is acceptable to you?'

'So you want to prove that you weren't a total screw-up the first time?'

'If we are speaking plainly, Sir, then yes, that is what I want.'

'And do you also want to show me what a bastard I was?'

'I'd prefer to focus on my presentation, if you don't mind, Mr. Holmes.'

Sherlock's eyes crinkled in amusement and one end of his lips twitched upwards in the briefest hint of a smile.

John began his exposition.

'As I mentioned the other day, the _primary_ target customer base would address 20% of the workforce. My customer segmentation is, actually, deconstructed into primary, secondary and tertiary tiers, with the latter two accounting for the remaining 80% of the workforce and each tier being targeted with its own tailored campaigns. The FSA approval _is_ featured in my recommendations but research shows that it only carries weight with the primary customer segment…'

Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin as he watched John excitedly defended his research, his hands gesturing animatedly and his eyes lighting up, blue and shimmering, like the ocean on a clear summer day. After a while, Sherlock's attention shifted from John's words to the intonations of his voice; he found that he liked John's voice, the way the pitch rose just a bit for emphasis and then dropped an octave as he set the ground for his next argument. He thought he would like to tune John's vocal chords, as he would a violin, and then maybe play on them. He liked the way John's body moved –he was dressed a little more casually today, a black blazer over black slacks and a shirt with bold blue and gray stripes, opened to the first button, no tie, showing just a hint of fair hair on a tanned chest.

John finished, squared his shoulders and waited for Sherlock to react. To demolish him or accept his arguments. A gladiator awaiting the Emperor's decree. Sherlock smiled.

'John…', he cocked his head. 'That was very good. Quite brilliant, actually.'

_Oh, yeah! I like how this is going.  
_  
'I see you haven't added a single new fact to your original presentation.'

_What the fuck?  
_  
'That is…correct, Mr. Holmes.'

'And yet, you convinced me of the merits of your proposal today. Why do you think you weren't able to, the first time?'

'I…uh…I am not sure, Sir. I suppose I was taken unawares by the presence of Ms. Adler and I honestly didn't expect you to rip it apart as you did.'

'In this business, John, you _must_ be ready for anything. And you _must_ have confidence in your work. If you don't have it, fake it but never, _ever_ let your audience see you falter. It's a cruel business that doesn't suffer fools and cowards. You're no fool. Don't be a coward. This was good.'

'Th..Thank you, Mr. Holmes.'

'And that was your first lesson', Sherlock added with a smile much kinder than John thought he would ever see soften those hard features. 'Incidentally, Irene and I went over your proposal the next day and we are using it verbatim. So, well done.'

'Thank you, Mr. Holmes', John beamed, his heart leaping clear of his chest, fluttering with joy in the middle of the room and his face foolishly revealing his joy. Sherlock's face relaxed into a soft look of indulgence, their eyes met and John blinked when he realized he was staring. He turned to leave when Sherlock spoke again.

'We still have two more campaigns to complete. Or have you forgotten?'

'No sir, I haven't. The drafts are ready but your calendar is booked solid this week and the next. The earliest appointment I was able to obtain is two weeks hence.'

'Hmm...Be at my home tonight. 7 p.m. 221B Baker Street. We'll discuss it then.'

'I…very well, Mr. Holmes. I'll be there.'


	3. The First Time

**The First Time**

* * *

Chapter Summary: Self-evident chapter title? :)

* * *

'About a month after I joined, Mr. Holmes and I began a sexual relationship.'

'A month?' Mary asked incredulously.

'Um…yes. We…it just happened.'

* * *

John brushed his teeth, shaved, showered, slapped on some aftershave and stood before his closet, rummaging through his clothes, trying to decide if he should go casual or formal. _Fuck it, it's after hours. Casual it is._ He stepped into a pair of jeans and pulled on a black, cotton shirt. It was a cold night so he took the added precaution of a heavy, black shooting jacket and leather gloves. His hair had a just-washed, ruffled look and smelled of his shampoo. Alright, Watson. Let's see what Sherlock Holmes does outside of the office.

At exactly 7 p.m. he rang the doorbell to 221B Baker Street. The latch clicked and the door opened to reveal Sherlock standing before him, in pyjamas and a t-shirt under a blue silk robe. His feet were bare and, John noted with a sinking feeling, utterly beautiful. Bony and long with beautiful toes. Just beautiful. The toes wiggled and he realized he was staring at his boss' feet. When he raised his head, he was looking into Sherlock's amused eyes.

His mentor stepped aside and cocked his head towards the living room. John stepped into a lavish flat, artfully decorated with an eclectic and perfectly complementary mix of conservative and avant garde furniture, exotic artifacts and a sprawling bookcase stuffed with books on a variety of subjects ranging from chemistry to medicine to literature to history to business. He ran his fingers ran over the sofa, along the ridged wallpaper, down the spine of the table lamp. The flat exuded warmth and safety, neither of which he would have associated with Sherlock – he only saw frost and danger in the office. He turned around and saw a strange look ghost over his boss' face. If he were to give it a name, he would call it vulnerability, tinged with yearning. Surely he was mistaken because Sherlock was never vulnerable and yearned for nothing.

A tantalizing aroma wafted from the kitchen and John closed his eyes and drew in a long breath.

'That smells great. You're cooking?'

'Indeed. I called you home around dinner time. It's only fair that I feed you.'

'Great. That's great.'

Sherlock had made delicious lasagna with cheese and vegetables (Lucky guess? John wondered. He was a lacto-vegetarian). They ate in silence, John somewhat crudely smacking his lips a few times and immediately apologizing for his lack of manners while Sherlock watched indulgently.

'Thank you, Mr. Holmes. That was really wonderful. I would never have thought you'd cook so well.'

'There's a lot you don't know about me, John. Would you like to step out onto the balcony? It affords a great view of the city.'

'I'd love to. May I use your bathroom first?'

'Down the corridor, first door on your right.'

John stepped into a spotless bathroom, emptied his bladder, washed his hands and then reached for the mouthwash. Italian food – use mouthwash. When he returned to the living room, he saw Sherlock out on the balcony, smoking. Nervously, he stepped out onto the balcony and cleared his throat to announce himself. Sherlock turned to look at him and his pale eyes raked over his body, an accompanying chill telling John exactly where on his body Sherlock's eyes lay. His lips felt wet and he became aware that he was licking them and quickly drew his tongue inside.

And then the world faded into the background and his senses narrowed to the figure of Sherlock flicking the cigarette clean into the ashtray and striding towards him. The figure grew in John's vision as it neared and stopped close enough to be blurred, waiting for John, giving him a choice. That was so unnecessary. There was only one answer John could give and he gave it by curling his fingers around Sherlock's neck and pulling his head forward and down until finally, his vision went black because his eyes had closed and his lips were being crushed against plump warm flesh that was so very, very soft. And John sighed against those lips.

That sigh appeared to have unleashed something in the other man because long arms snaked around him and his body was jerked up close against a tall, warm frame and his arms instinctively moved up around his boss' body, fingers pressing into the bony shoulder blades and nails lightly scratching a trail of need down the lithely muscled back to the slender waist that John was sure he could snap in two if he tried. And then coherent thought became a thing of the past as he lost himself in the sensation of a tongue licking at the seam of his lips and he parted them, ceding to the insistent interloper that immediately licked inside, searching for his tongue and finding it.

John's nose pressed against the hollow of Sherlock's cheek and he breathed in his smell – aftershave mixed with sweat in a spicy and overwhelmingly masculine cocktail. And then Sherlock sighed into John's mouth. Sherlock tasted of tobacco with a hint of lasagna and John couldn't imagine a taste he'd want more on his mouth, inside it, torturing him with small licks and nips, sucking on his tongue, biting on his lips, pulling on them and panting against his mouth when they sprang back with a wet pop. John had never been kissed like this before. This kiss was almost scientific in its approach. Each caress was performed once and those that elicited a positive response were repeated. Or maybe it wasn't really scientific because _every_ caress was repeated as there was little that Sherlock was doing to John that did not cause him to pant or sigh or moan or mewl or otherwise embarrass himself. When Sherlock was satisfied he had kissed John enough, he pulled back and licked his lips, as if to keep the taste of John inside.

'Mouthwash', he smiled. 'I'm afraid I didn't show you the same consideration.'

'Oh no, you taste great. Just great…' John blabbered, looking up at Sherlock with wide, blown eyes. 'Fuck, I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes…I don't know what I'm saying…'

'Right now, I find that very endearing, John. And I think you might call me Sherlock.'

'Oh…yes, oh God…Sherlock…Sherlock…Sherlock…'

'That is my name, yes', his boss smiled down at him.

John cleared his throat.

'Mr… I mean Sherlock, we haven't reviewed the other two proposals.'

'We could do that over breakfast tomorrow. That is if you're amenable to exploring this dimension to our relationship.'

'Oh, I'm amenable. God, I'm amenable.'

'You're frank, John. I like that very much. Bedroom?'

If John had to choose one word spoken in one voice, bottle that and market it as Sex-in-a-bottle or Aphrodisiac-for-the-ages, it would be Sherlock's voice asking 'Bedroom?'

'You lead, I'll follow', he cocked his head and grinned stupidly. And then flushed a deep red when he realised he was being completely idiotic. Sherlock must like idiots because he smiled and dipped his head to capture John's lips in a second kiss, this one chaste and much too brief. Just a promise of what was to come. John's legs seemed to have disintegrated because he found himself unable to stand and clutched at the broad shoulders of his boss, pulling on the robe and t-shirt to accidentally expose a long length of collar bone.

'Oh, oh, god', he gasped and stood on tip-toe to lick Sherlock's skin along the length of his sharp clavicle. He realised Sherlock was more affected than he revealed when the long fingers of one hand carded through his head, digging into his scalp while the other hand pressed against the small of his back, pulling him closer than he thought possible to that long, warm body. The final proof was a long moan that escaped those flushed, parted lips that John had thought…had _known_ were made for kissing. Just kissing. How could the mouth that had mercilessly flayed him with words also methodically and effortlessly undo him with touch?

'Bedroom. Now!' Sherlock hissed and dragged John by his wrist to a dark room down the corridor. Sherlock stepped into the bathroom to quickly brush his teeth and when he returned, he switched on the night lamp, pulled open the drawer in the night table to extract condoms and a small bottle of lube and turned to John.

'Clothes off', he snapped, quickly shrugging off his robe and letting it fall to the floor, followed by his t-shirt and pyjamas until he stood before John in his fitted black boxers. And John forgot to breathe. His chest hurt and he counted two possibilities – actual angina _(unlikely, given his age)_ or arousal at the sight of his near-naked boss that was so acute that it felt like angina _(most likely, given his boss' otherworldly beauty)_.

'Gape later. Strip. Now.' Sherlock's voice was ragged with urgency and John hurried to comply. When he was also undressed down to his y-fronts (red and obscenely tented around his erection), he stood up straight and looked at Sherlock.

'Red? Oh, John, you are delightful! Pants off, please', Sherlock laughed. The vibrations of that laugh rocked in John's belly like a ground bass and spiraled down to his cock which twitched in response.

He slowly, and very shyly, pushed his red pants (_Red? Y-fronts? What was I thinking?_ _Idiot!_) to the floor, demurely holding his hands over his groin. He couldn't explain this diffidence. He was no blushing virgin and was confident in his appeal to both sexes and in his reputation as a considerate and extremely satisfactory lover. Why, then, did Sherlock make him nervous? Was he really worried about falling short?

'John…I want to see you…all of you…', Sherlock purred and John could have sworn he was being seduced by the love child of honey and whiskey. His cock tapped his folded palms in an enthusiastic endorsement of his analogy.

'No, it's not fair. You are still clothed.' He cast his eyes to the floor, looking at his own feet.

'You're right. It isn't fair. Look at me now, John. Is this fair?'

John moved his gaze to Sherlock's feet and raised his eyes, trailing them up Sherlock's long, lean legs, the strong muscles of his calves and sinewy thighs reminding him of Greek statues and then his eyes stopped. He was transfixed. Was this what poets imagined when they wrote of beauty and perfection? It must be because this was perfection. Mesmerizing perfection. The object of his latest attentions was a long, thick and very pink shaft that jutted out proudly from a nest of dark, wiry hair against a canvas of pale skin, framed by two very prominent hip bones. His eyes hurt as he tore them from that magnificent cock to trace the dips and curves of the lean muscles on Sherlock's belly, his thin ribs, his surprisingly muscled chest, dotted with a few moles here and there and two dusky nipples, up to the sweep of his shoulders, over a long neck and then the face to which, he wouldn't admit to anyone, he had wanked off every night since joining the firm.

'Even more unfair. Oh god, so unfair. You are so, so…goddamn sexy…What are _you_ doing with _me_? You could have _anyone_!' he blathered, apparently having no control over the inanities that spewed unchecked from his mouth.

'Will you let me see you, John?' Sherlock asked, ignoring John's obvious need for reassurance.

'Sherlock…'

Long fingers clasped his forearms and pulled his hands away; his arms rested at his side, his eyes closed and he bit his lower lip, his breath coming in shallow, rapid pants as he fearfully suffered Sherlock's appraisal of his naked form.

'You're beautiful, John. What has got you so tense?'

'No one's ever called me _beautiful_ before. _Sexy_, usually. _Gorgeous_, a couple of times. Never beautiful.'

'Do you not like it?'

'I like it too much. What are we doing, Sherlock? What are you doing with me?'

'I want to have sex with you, John. And I sincerely hope I haven't misread your signals.'

'Oh no…no, no…not at all. It's just…you're my boss. I'm one month old in this company and I'm about to sleep with my boss. My gorgeous boss who could have the whole city line up outside his bedroom if he so much as _suggested_ he was interested.'

'Can you take me as just Sherlock tonight?' he asked, the raw edge to his voice betraying more than he intended. 'Not your boss. Just a man who wants you and whom you, too, hopefully want.'

'Look at this', John said with a huff, both hands arrowing down in a V to his throbbing cock. 'What does this tell you?'

'It tells me you want me', Sherlock laughed. 'I'd like to kiss you now.'

'I'd like that too. I really, really would.'

'How old are you, John?'

'Twenty-three.'

'I'm twenty-nine. It's probably a bit late to be asking this, given our state of undress, but does the age difference bother you?'

'Age is just a number.'

'Very good. I'm glad.'

Sherlock took a step towards John and pushed him onto the bed to straddle his body. He rested on his forearms which pressed into John's pillow on either side of his head. He pressed his lips to John's and teased them open and licked inside. Each wet swipe on his tongue ran through John's nerves like a jolt as Sherlock's mouth dragged an open, wet trail along his jaw and down his neck, to nip at his collar bone. Sherlock's body bowed as he lowered his head to John's chest and a wet stripe was painted over his painfully hard nipple and then it was sucked between warm, wet lips. So much wetness, so much heat. John's nipples had never been particularly sensitive but Sherlock's mouth gave the lie to that assumption with every lick, every suck and every nibble. His nipples and his cock were locked in a battle to the death for the title of _most-erogenous-zone-in-John's-body_. His titillated nipples currently held an (unfair) advantage over his neglected cock. Score: Nipples 9, Cock 3.

Just when John thought he couldn't take any more pleasure, he felt Sherlock's cock fall on his belly, hot, heavy and slick; then Sherlock's hips shifted so that his cock lay beside John's, touching, burning.

'Unnnhhhh', he groaned while his hands beat on the bed and fisted the sheets.

'Touch me, John…', his boss whispered against a nipple, or into it, it would seem, like some kind of fleshy microphone because John felt those sonic vibrations prickle his cock which twitched against the hot flesh lying beside it. His arms moved up as if voice-operated by his boss and one hand pushed into those hedonistic curls while the fingers of his other hand dug into the muscles on that beautiful pale back. He was close, so close…

The sensations thrumming through his torso radiated downwards as long fingers clasped both their cocks and in that instant, the score in the Battle of Flesh flipped. Tables turned. Sense tumbled into nonsense. John's brain slipped out of his skull and sank to his groin. Score: Nipples 9, Cock 81.

Sherlock began to stroke them in concert, root to tip, tip to root, his thumb doing wicked things to the swollen tops, squeezing the shafts, teasing, twisting, slow then fast, hard then soft and John's balls drew up and his entire body slapped and spasmed against the bed, like a fish on dry land, as he came with a long and loud moan, gloriously painting his chest and his boss' belly with hot ropes of semen. A deep and lingering gasp echoed against his skin and was followed by a soft, stifled groan as Sherlock's body convulsed above him and his belly was seared with fluid that was not his and he knew Sherlock had come with him.

Sherlock's body stayed bowed above his, their torsos not touching while his hand still remained wrapped around their shuddering, over-sensitized cocks as they floated down back to earth.

'Your heart is beating so fast', Sherlock murmured shakily against John's skin.

'You did that to me.'

And then John's heart stilled as soft lips pressed against his chest and he closed his eyes and bit his lips, driven mad by the question running through his head – _isthisreallyjustsex_, _isthisreallyjustsex_? At long last, Sherlock lifted off John and sat back on his thighs, his arse cheeks softly pressing down on John's knees and John's hands reached out to stroke those beautiful, slender hips. Sherlock looked down at their bodies, proudly surveying the results of their encounter. Stripes of white criss-crossed on their bodies, a very slight variation in colour the only distinguishing feature between their two ejaculates.

'I think we've created a Jackson Pollock – a Study in Semen', Sherlock laughed, running a finger through the gunk on John's chest, mixing their come and writing his name in the white swirl. John recognized the alphabets and wrote his own name on Sherlock's chest.

'I think we've created a Holmes&Watson. I like it better than a Pollock.'

'Me too', Sherlock murmured in agreement.

John looked over at the unused condom with some regret.

'Next time', Sherlock promised and bent down again and this time he pressed his chest and belly to John's and slid his body a few times over John's, wiping out their names and smearing their semen over each other while his lips kissed John's with something more than just the satiation that follows explosive sex.

Soft sounds escaped John's throat as he struggled with new feelings of intimacy and understanding that carried with them a warning of heartache and hurt. Sherlock's kisses deepened when he sensed John's torment, overcome with the need to reassure his young lover, show him that he wouldn't let him fall. That he would catch them both and they would float down to the ground together, in his arms.

They kissed like this for a long while and then Sherlock rolled off John. They lay back on the bed, not touching, and stared at the ceiling, terrified by the gravity of their unspoken exchange, both men painfully aware that so much more than just sex had happened.

They cleaned themselves off in silence and John picked up his clothes when he felt a hand clasp his wrist.

'Stay with me tonight.' Stormy eyes beckoned with a siren call of longing and he was powerless to refuse.

He dropped his clothes to the floor and settled under the covers, willingly giving himself up to Sherlock's warm embrace, pressing into his mentor's long body, his face buried in that beautiful chest while his arm wrapped around Sherlock's back, holding him close, never wanting to let go. And he knew that the fire blazed as strongly in the other man when he felt lips press into his hair and two simple whispered words, _my_ _John_, told him everything he needed to know.


	4. Crossing the Rubicon

**Chapter 4 – Crossing the Rubicon**

* * *

Chapter summary: Once more, self-evident chapter title? :)

* * *

'Over the next year, our relationship intensified. On the work front, I had some very big wins and was given some very big projects to manage. Mr. Holmes, however, always made sure that projects were equitably assigned across all Account Managers in his team. There was enough success to go around.'

* * *

The first time Sherlock took John was after their first big joint presentation to the management of the biggest Investment Banking firm in Europe. That presentation won Creative Nexus a 2-year advertising contract worth £2.5 million. Their bonus checks were going to be padded that year.

They were high on success. They were high on each other. Two young men drunk on shared elation, trading smiles, kisses, sighs, touches and whispers in the taxi that drove them back to Sherlock's flat.

Stumbling into the flat still kissing, their clothes dropped to the floor in a trail that led to Sherlock's bedroom. John extracted the condom and lube from the night table, lay back on the bed and spread his legs.

'I want you to take me tonight, Sherlock.'

'Have you done this before?'

'Never received, no. You'll be my first.'

'John…are you sure?' Sherlock's heart thudded in his chest.

He wanted John; he had wanted to take him since the first night they spent together. Since that night, three months ago, they had wanked, sucked, fingered and rimmed each other, even 69-d but never actually fucked. Never cock-in-arse fucked.

'Do you want it?' John hissed through his teeth as he stroked himself.

'Oh god, I do. I want to take you. I want to _fuck_ you', the undisguised desperation in his voice ringing through to John.

'Then _fuck_ me, boss. Fuck me till I can't walk anymore.'

If Sherlock didn't have a boss-subordinate kink before, he did now. And it manifested in the raging hard-on that poked out from between his legs. And yet, with John, there was a softer edge taming the wild desire coursing through his body. Something he couldn't name. Or didn't want to for fear that the sentiment might not be returned. Sentiment - a destructive deficiency from which he had divorced himself since his heart was broken in Uni. Sherlock Holmes did sex. He didn't do sentiment. And yet, he found himself wanting to lose himself in John. He was going to be John's first; he felt privileged that John was gifting him his virginity. Could there be more than sex with John? Did John see the _man_ behind the corporate persona? Would he _want_ that man? Would he _like_ him?

_Tell me, John. Do you see the real me? Do you want to? _

They kissed for a long while, lips, necks, nipples, navels, cocks, whimpering and mewling, skin on skin, trembling in anticipation of the ecstasy they knew waited for them, called to them.

'Please, Sherlock!' John begged. 'Don't make me wait anymore!' his voice was hoarse with raw need.

Without further ado, Sherlock doused his fingers with lube and pressed a finger into John, hearing his lover hiss at the burn. A few moments later he insinuated a second finger and then a third. When all three fingers were fully embedded in John, he held still, allowing his lover's passage to relax around the foreign presence. John's ragged moans and gasps told him he was in pain so he pressed tender, wet kisses to John's nipples and chest, shushing his lover with endearments and words of comfort and was reassured when the cries died and he felt the ring of muscle relax around his fingers.

'Move!' John demanded and Sherlock began to move his fingers, slowly piercing John, scissoring gently to loosen him, the slick fluid providing a squelching interlude each time his fingers changed direction. Finally, when he thought John felt ready, he drew his fingers out and wiped them with a tissue.

'Fuck me, Mr. Holmes. Fuck me, Sir. Fuck me now.' His voice had dropped to a low growl that found a direct line of contact to Sherlock's testicles which drew up and hardened his cock till it almost ached with want.

Sherlock rolled on a condom, slicked himself up and positioned himself at John's entrance. And then he pushed all the way in, in a single, smooth thrust till his balls slapped against John's arse. And he held still. John's eyes opened, his eyebrows furrowed in pain.

'Oh god! John, I'm hurting you. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry', Sherlock cried and began to pull out.

'No, no, no! I want you, Sherlock!'

'John…I'm hurting you. I didn't prepare you enough. Oh god!'

'Sherlock, please, my love…ly teacher...please, Sherlock. Just give me a minute. I'll be alright. I…Sherlock…I want you so much.'

He prayed that Sherlock hadn't caught his slip and kept his gaze open, seeking to see right through Sherlock to his heart, his soul, his centre and show his lover his own heart. And he knew Sherlock had _seen_ him, had _felt_ him when his lover cried out from above him.

'Oh mon Dieu, non ! Qu'ai-je fait ? Que m'as-tu fait ?' Sherlock cried, not realising he was speaking French.  
_('Oh god, no! What have I done? What have you done to me?')_

'Sherlock, what is it? Please tell me. Do you not want this? Please, Sherlock!' John begged his lover.

Sherlock's pale hips began to move against John as the yearning of his body temporarily bested the anguish in his mind that presaged suffering and despair. John's legs tightened around his waist and he began to move his hips with Sherlock's in a slow rhythm that pushed and pulled their bodies against each other. Sherlock's eyes stayed open, searching, seeing the minute changes in his lover's expressions reflect the sensations ravaging his body. He could see John struggling to keep his eyes open and hold Sherlock's gaze, biting his lip as he fought his primal instinct to shut out visual stimuli and lose himself in the tactile maelstrom that Sherlock's body was whipping up inside him with every brutal stab of those slender hips.

Sherlock's cock was a microcosm of his being; as his flesh buried itself in the tight, wet heat of John's passage, his spirit seemed to have merged with John's through their eyes, a cosmic dance of love between two nebulous forms joining and separating and nuzzling and holding. Two spirits, one dark, melancholy and lost but then found by another, bright and golden like sunshine. He plunged into the blue sea of tenderness that lay before him in John's eyes, welcoming him in, enveloping him in its loving, formless arms and like a fool, he surrendered. And sank. And kept sinking, deeper and deeper until he was past the point of no return. He had fallen in love with John.

'Oh mon Dieu ! Tu vas me détruire !'  
_('Oh god! You will destroy me!')_

Lost in a deafening cacophony of torment, he didn't hear John whispering 'Never! Never!'

He felt his lover's walls flutter around his flesh, tightening more than he had thought possible and then John's cock twitched between them. He could almost trace the path of the pleasure flooding through John by the flush spreading on his skin, starting from his hips and creeping up his abdomen, his ribs, his chest and neck and his cheeks. And then John's head fell back on his pillow and he closed his eyes and gave himself up to his orgasm, his untouched cock erratically spraying his semen over their chests and bellies as his body convulsed hard, for a long time. Sherlock watched John come undone, marveling at the untamed beauty of his young lover in the throes of bliss and just like that, he came, wild and bucking inside John, ruined by the man under him.

They floated on clouds of bliss, teetering on the threshold of consciousness and the dream world; their fingers threaded, kisses fell wherever there was skin to be found, tasting sweat and semen, breaths and heartbeats and whispers were shared, soft words of adoration were given and echoed, nerve fibres communicated on a cellular level where words fell short. They both knew something had changed irrevocably between them that day.

When, after a long time, they regained control of their faculties, Sherlock rolled off John and wordlessly cleaned them up. He left John in bed and walked to the balcony to smoke a cigarette. They didn't speak anymore that night.

The next few months passed in a blur of exhilarating success in the boardroom and heady pleasure in the bedroom. They worked hard and celebrated harder, every success ending in bed, with either Sherlock taking John or John taking Sherlock or, if their bodies could handle the exertion, both on the same night.

On quieter nights, while Sherlock sat naked in bed reading a book, John was content to read Sherlock. Sherlock would find his body being nudged and repositioned and would huff indulgently when the hands doing the nudging became impatient if he did not comply immediately; arms were lifted, knees were pushed apart, hips were shifted as John's lips made their way to their chosen destination on Sherlock's body and luxuriated there. And then Sherlock would find it near impossible to concentrate on his book. When John's lips started wanting more and when he thought he had allowed Sherlock enough reading time, he would kiss a trail up his lover's stomach and chest and neck and the trail always ended on Sherlock's lips. John would hold his lips there till he felt his lover sigh because that meant Sherlock would put the book away, turn off the light and give himself over to John.

Sherlock had only bottomed with one other man before John, back in Uni. When that relationship ended badly, he lost all interest in relationships and humanity, in general. But with John, he found himself ready to give himself over to the feeling of being claimed, possessed. Owned. John already owned him but he was not ready to admit that yet. And John seemed in no hurry to stake his claim. They were happy. Any formalisation of their bond seemed redundant.

Their touches and glances became supplementary forms of communication when words were not possible. A flashing glance from John from across the room or a soft clearing of a throat told Sherlock he needed to tone down his scathing assessment of an intern's work. The ghost of a smile in those beautiful slate eyes or a soft brush of fingers on John's shoulder told him that Sherlock appreciated his work. Appreciated him.

Most nights were spent in Sherlock's flat but he would sometimes show up unannounced at John's door and, if John wasn't in, would text him to return home at once. A month later, they did the logical thing and swapped spare keys to their flats.

There was little they had not said physically. There was little they had said verbally. Their touches and glances and kisses could fill a book if vocalized, but both men decided to believe that they were _choosing_ not to distort their unspoken communication by putting it into words. Neither man would admit to the terror of potentially being the only one to feel like they did.


	5. The New Guy

**The New Guy**

* * *

Chapter summary: Enter one Mr. Victor Trevor...  
Sherlock loves John sooo much.

* * *

'I trusted in Mr. Holmes implicitly and would never have believed that he would deliberately stymie my career or indulge in nepotism until it became evident that Mr. Victor Trevor was the automatic assignee for any overseas projects. None of the other Account Managers, including myself, seemed to have been considered for those projects. And then I accidentally overheard a conversation between Mr. Holmes and Mr. Wilkes that transpired in Mr. Wilkes' office. And the same day, Mr. Holmes assaulted me.'

* * *

The Euro-Americas division won a huge advertising contract with Greens, a grocery chain based in Dallas. John mistakenly assumed he was a shoe-in for the assignment. Sherlock assigned the account to a new recruit, Victor Trevor. John didn't question Sherlock.

Victor Trevor, twenty-seven, cousin to Irene Adler, joined Creative Nexus a year after John and was assigned to Sherlock's team. He was everything John was not - tall, dark haired, classically handsome, rich and connected. And he wanted Sherlock. That fact became apparent to John at the firm's Christmas party when, from across the room, he saw Victor stroking Sherlock's bicep. John had just acknowledged his own jealousy when he saw Sherlock say something that made Victor flinch like he was burned. He dropped his head, muttered something and quickly turned on his heel, leaving Sherlock alone. John turned away with a smile.

A few months later, the Euro-Americas division won another contract with Vectorcom, an IT consulting firm based in New York. Once again, Sherlock assigned the contract to Victor. John broached the subject with Sherlock in bed.

'You're not ready, John.'

'And Victor is?'

'Yes, he is. He's older than you. He has been in the industry five years longer than you have. He has worked on international accounts in his previous job. And I deemed him a better candidate for this account than you. The last time I checked, project assignments in my department were still my prerogative.'

'Of course, _boss_', John spat, turned his back to Sherlock and tried to fall sleep.

Three other international accounts were handed to Victor over the next few months. Each time, Sherlock's response was the same. 'You're not ready, John.' John was livid.

He was brewing himself coffee in the office kitchen when Tonya, an Account Manager in Sebastian Wilkes' team, came up to him.

'Hey, John, how are you?'

'I'm well, Tonya. And you?'

'Oh busy as usual. Just came from a meeting with Sebastian. He's pissed. Sherlock was given primary accountability for the Unicorp account although they are headquartered in Tokyo, on the grounds that their biggest offices were in Europe and the USA. Sherlock, of course, has decided to give the account to Victor. What's with that, huh? Victor's getting everything these days. Like he's Sherlock's _new_ favourite son.'

John cocked an eyebrow at the emphasis on "new".

'Oh come on, John. Everyone knew you were Sherlock's blue-eyed boy last year. Now it seems Victor's moved in on your turf.'

'That's just gossip, Tonya. Waste of time. See you around.'

Inwardly, John was seething. He texted Sherlock.

_I want to see you. Now. –JW_

When Sherlock didn't respond, he sent a second text.

_I'm coming to your office. Now. –JW_

He stormed up to Sherlock's office and saw the door was shut. When he knocked and there was no response from the other side, he opened it and immediately wished he hadn't. Sherlock sat in his chair and Irene Adler was leaning over him; Sherlock's hands were holding Irene's shoulders as their lips met in what seemed to be a very enthusiastic kiss. They hadn't noticed him standing there so he turned around and shut the door quietly.

That evening, he did not go to Sherlock's flat. An hour after his expected arrival, Sherlock rang his doorbell.

'I'm not well tonight, Sherlock. I want to be alone.'

'Oh, ok, sure. Do you need anything? Do you need to see a doctor?'

'I'll be fine, thank you.'

'What is it? Something you ate? The flu? Should I stay the night?'

'No, thanks.'

'Could I stay the night?'

'No, Sherlock. Good night.'

'John…you seem to be in a hurry to get rid of me. Is everything OK? Between us?'

'Funny you should ask, Sherlock, because I was wondering the same thing.'

With that, he slammed the door in his lover's face.

The next morning, Sherlock received an email from John, cc'd to HR, requesting a month's leave of absence. That evening, Sherlock again rang John's doorbell. Once more, John turned him away.

Three weeks passed with no contact between John and Sherlock. He wouldn't return Sherlock's text or voice messages. He texted Sherlock just once that he needed time to think and wanted to be left alone.

In his first week away from the office, John emailed Sebastian Wilkes and asked to meet him for lunch. Wilkes agreed.

'How are you, John? I heard you've taken some time off.'

'Yeah, yeah, I just…uh…needed to work some things out. Thanks for meeting me, Sebastian.'

'Not at all. I interviewed you and hired you so I am interested in how you're doing. I was hoping you'd join Asia-Pac, you know. But then Holmes asked for you to join his team. And what Holmes wants, Holmes gets.'

'So, Asia-Pac. Any chance I could make a move there?'

'Really? You want out of Euro-Am?'

'Well, I've been there nearly two years now and have only been working on national accounts. Big accounts, no question, but still only national. I think I'm ready for international work but Sherlock sees Victor as a better fit and he's been getting all those accounts. Career-wise, I'm at a standstill and think I'm ready for a change. I actually wanted your guidance. What would you suggest I do?'

'Well, I'll be honest, John. Jason and I would love to have you on board in Asia-Pac and it sounds like you're interested.'

'I am, Sebastian. Frankly, I was hoping that was a possibility.'

'It would have to be cleared with Sherlock, of course.'

John didn't give up.

'Does it really have to go through him? I have put in the mandated 18 months in his department and am ready for a change. Sherlock pulled me into his department by, what, speaking to HR? I can email HR with a request for a transfer and copy you. Would that work?'

'What's going on, John? You seem mighty desperate to leave that team.'

'Look, Sebastian. I really don't want to get into details but I admit I want to move out. If you want me in your team, I'm ready. Otherwise, I'll just look for another job.'

'Don't do anything stupid. Take a couple of days. Think about it. Let me think about it. I'll be in touch within the week.'

On Friday, Sebastian called John.

'Alright, I spoke to Mary. Send her that email and copy me. Leave Sherlock out of it. She'll take it forward.'

'Thanks, Sebastian. Thank you so much.'

'Don't thank me yet. I've gone up against Sherlock in the past and he's not an easy man to fight.'

Within an hour, John had emailed Mary Morstan, VP of Human Resources and copied Sebastian with his request for a transfer to the Asia-Pacific division. He indicated that he was open to a lateral move as his primary objective was to expand the scope of his work to include international accounts.

On Tuesday the following week, he received an email from Mary confirming his transfer to the Asia-Pacific division. On the basis of his consistently exceptional performance in Euro-Am, he was being promoted to the post of Assistant Vice President, reporting to Mr. Jason Price, VP of Asia-Pac. He would be awarded an increase in salary and a bonus structure commensurate with his new position.

John was elated. He met Mike Stamford for drinks that evening and, his tongue loosened by alcohol, made the mistake of breaking the good news to him.

On Wednesday, he telephoned Sebastian to thank him again and set up a meeting to discuss next steps.

'Hold on, John. I'm going to put you on mute for a bit. My assistant just paged me that someone's coming in. Hold on, yeah? Shouldn't take a minute.'

John held the line while Sebastian dealt the new matter at his end.

'What the fuck do you think you're doing, Seb?'

On the other end of the line, John froze.

'Sorry, Sherlock, what are you talking about?'

'You're taking John?'

'_Taking_ John? He's not some object that I'd simply _take_, Sherlock!'

'You're _taking_ him away from my team into yours. How did you wangle that anyway? When did you make the offer?'

'John approached me. He was eager for a change. Asia-Pac had an AVP position open and it only made sense to move him there. If members of your team see fit to leave it, that's something you need to address internally. John is now officially AVP of Asia-Pac and will be deputed to Tokyo within the coming month. I suggest you discuss any further matters directly with him.'

'I assuredly will. And I'll make sure he stays', Sherlock snapped and stormed out of the room.

Twenty minutes later, a fist pounded on John's door.

'Open the door, John! Open up! Damnit! I know you're in there!'

John sighed. He had expected a confrontation. He opened the door.

'Sherlock…what is it?'

'What is it? What is it? You're asking me? AVP of Asia-Pac. Congratulations, John!'

'Thank you, Sherlock.'

'Why, John?'

'It was time.'

'Time to leave me?'

'Time to leave for better opportunities. Better career prospects. A better future.'

'And Sebastian can give you that?'

'I don't know, Sherlock, but I have to try', John said, sounding tired. 'I just know I am not happy anymore in your team. I don't even feel like part of the team anymore.'

'Reconsider this decision. Tell them you don't want it.'

'But I do! I want it. I want _out_!'

'Why? What's really going on?'

'Leave me alone, Sherlock. I am still on my leave of absence. I will speak to you in the office when I resume on Monday. Until then, please leave me alone.'

'I won't. I _can't_ leave you alone!'

Sherlock pushed John into the flat and kicked the door. It closed with a bang behind him. He crushed John's body against his and pressed a bruising kiss to his lips, a kiss he hoped would tell John everything he couldn't put into words. John fought hard, his fists raining blows on his back but Sherlock was unaffected by physical pain when his heart lay bleeding at John's feet.

He pushed John onto the sofa, grasped both his wrists in one large hand and pinned his hands behind his back. John's body arched off the sofa and he tried to kick Sherlock away to no avail. His mentor was stronger than he looked and John's ineffectual attempts to free himself ceased after a while as he sank back into the sofa. Sherlock deftly unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans and pulled his boxers down below his balls. He pressed soft kisses to the wiry blond hair and then took John in his mouth. He sucked and licked and kissed and stroked his cock with the desperation of a man who knew he was losing the one thing he cared most about. John weakly tried to free his wrists from Sherlock's other hand.

'Don't do this, Sherlock. Please don't. I don't want it', he pleaded feebly.

Sherlock didn't stop and John stopped asking him to. A few minutes later, he came in Sherlock's mouth. What was once an act of intimacy between them had become an act of dominance and John hated it. He hated Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled off and sat back on the floor at John's feet. A single tear ran down John's face.

'Get out, Sherlock.'

'John…I'm sorry…oh god, I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry, John!'

'Get. Out.'

Sherlock staggered out of John's flat, broken and disgusted with himself. His poorly planned attempt to show John how much he wanted him to stay had backfired spectacularly. Combusted, actually. When he returned to Baker Street, he took a hot shower and lay down in bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering at what exact point in his life he had become an animal, a feral savage who mauled the one person dearest to him. He waited for an answer but there was none.

The next few weeks passed by uneventfully in the office. John coordinated his work with Sarah, handing over his accounts to his designate. He didn't see or attempt to see Sherlock and his soon-to-be-ex boss returned the favour.

One morning, John was brewing his coffee as usual in the office kitchen when he heard an unctuous voice call to him.

'Hey, John, so you're leaving us for Asia-Pac.'

He turned around to look into the brown eyes of Victor Trevor.

'I am, yes.'

'Well, good luck, mate. I'll make sure Sherlock doesn't miss you too much', he said with a lewd wink.

'I'm not sure I follow you, Victor.'

'Entre nous, the boss is a fantastic shag. Holy fuck!'

'Really?' John asked flatly.

'Oh yeah, _fantastic_. Shagging management has never been more enjoyable. Well, you would know…'

Victor cast a sly glance down to John's hands and noticed they were clenched. He smirked.

'Showed me his tattoo. Above his right nipple, of all places. Sexy bastard.'

'Sherlock doesn't have any tattoos.'

'He does now!' Victor's laugh was like an oil slick.

'Fuck off, Trevor. And leave me out of your sordid bullshit.'

'Cheers, mate! Or should I say Sayonara?' he laughed.

John stormed out of the kitchen and locked himself in his office. He was sure he hated Sherlock. That single pure emotion coursed through his body. He had thought he loved Sherlock but now love curdled into loathing. Passion curdled into poison. And he wanted to destroy his mentor. The bastard couldn't wait to latch on to the next piece of arse now that John was no longer available. He had held John back simply to have his body available on demand.

_Fuck you, Sherlock. I'm going to take you down._

He emailed Mary Morstan and requested a meeting. When he was seated in her office, he explained that he had been sexually assaulted by Sherlock. After her initial shock died down, she explained the implications to John.

'You realize this is a very serious charge, John. Are you sure you want to go ahead with it?'

'I am.'

'It will be hard to prove, given that you are, or were, in a relationship with Sherlock. It could also result in Sherlock losing his job.'

'Assault is assault, whether it occurs within or outside a relationship. Is that not the HR policy on the matter?'

'It is.'

'And Sherlock's career is not my concern.'

'Well, as long as you're sure.'

'I am.'

John's vision blurred as he inwardly recalled the events leading up to this day. Mary noticed and called for a recess. John headed for the men's room and a few moments later, was joined by Sherlock.

'John…is all this necessary? Won't you just talk to me?'

'I hate you, Sherlock. I hate you.'

'You don't mean that, John!'

'I mean _every_ word. I. Hate. You. Sherlock. Fucking. Holmes. And I'll be glad to have a continent between us soon.'

He walked out without another word, leaving Sherlock gaping at his own reflection in the mirror. He saw a wraith of a man he once knew and the face in the mirror stared back at him, asking him when everything had gone so wrong. And why.


	6. The Beginning of the End

**Chapter 6 - The Beginning of the End **

* * *

Chapter summary: Oh John...what have you done?

* * *

The meeting reconvened and Mary cleared her throat.

'There's been a bit of a development. Mr. Holmes has admitted to all of Mr. Watson's allegations. He has agreed to apologise in writing for his actions and is willing to abide by the board's decision on the matter. There really is nothing more to discuss, unless Mr. Watson has anything more to add.'

She paused and looked at the two men who were engaged in a staring contest, John shooting daggers of hate at Sherlock which the accused made no attempt to deflect.

'Alright, then. This concludes the inquiry. The board's decision will be communicated tomorrow, via internal memo. Thank you, everyone.'

Mary leaned over to whisper in John's ear and then rose from her chair and left the room, followed by the other board members. Sherlock and John sat across the table, looking at each other and John blinked when he saw a flash of desolation in Sherlock's eyes, and deep, sincere remorse.

The next day, a memo was circulated to John, Sherlock and the members of the board announcing the outcome of the inquiry. Sherlock's employment with Creative Nexus Limited was terminated with immediate effect. John was confirmed as VP of Asia-Pac to be deputed to Tokyo within a week. Everyone privy to the proceedings was instructed not to discuss details with anyone. A terse company-wide email was also sent, communicating the same message.

John felt avenged.

He met Mike Stamford for lunch. He had expected a friend but that afternoon, a very different Mike Stamford sat before John.

'You're just a bastard, John. You're like all those young sharks who take what they want, not caring how many bodies they leave in their wake. I'm glad you're leaving England.'

'That's really, genuinely unfair, Mike.'

'What do you think happened up there today? Let me hear it.'

'I think Sherlock knew he was beaten. He decided to take the high road and admit his mistakes. The board made a good decision.'

Mike laughed a belly laugh of genuine amusement.

'Are you really that naive to think he was beaten? You're replaceable John, but there are very few Sherlocks in the industry. Firms this big care only about the money makers, not fucking upstarts like you.'

'Of course you'd say that. He's your boss', John shrugged.

'He's my _friend_! And for your information, the board voted to package you out – they saw you as a troublemaker. But he fought for you and resigned his job for you, you dick. He gave up the _one_ thing he loved, the one thing that kept him sane. Sacrificed it so that _you_ could have the one thing _you_ loved. _That_ is what happened. Did you even give him a chance to explain? Fuck you, John Watson.'

Mike walked out of the pub, leaving a dumbfounded John nursing his drink alone.

Slowly, as the full import of the day's events sank in, a black fire of regret consumed him, burning up his insides till there was just a vacuum. _What have I done? Why was there so much drama?_ He was still furious with Sherlock but they had shared something deep, something _real_. _Did I do something to drive us apart?_ In the end, Sherlock had admitted his mistake. And John had destroyed the person most important to him in the entire world. And just like that, John's hollow triumph withered away, leaving a void where there once was a bond.

An hour later, he stumbled home, reeling, poleaxed by what Mike had told him. _Fix it, Watson. FIX IT!_


	7. The Middle of the End

**The Middle of End **

* * *

Chapter summary: John redeems himself...a bit.

* * *

Sherlock stood on his terrace, leaning against the balustrade, smoking. London's skyline lay spread out before him, bleak yet beautiful. He only felt bleak inside.

The lock on his door clicked and he turned around to look at the figure that walked through the door. John Watson.

Crushing the cigarette in the ashtray on the patio table, he slowly walked through the French windows into the living room.

'You haven't changed the locks.'

'What would the point be? You have the only spare key.'

'Not Victor? Not Irene?' John goaded him.

'Don't be ridiculous. Anyway, why are you here?'

'I was told you resigned today.'

Sherlock dismissively waved his hand.

'I thought you'd given up on the fight but Mike told me the board had voted to terminate me. So why did you resign?'

'The job held no appeal anymore.'

'Is that the only reason? Or did you resign so that I could continue to work there?'

'The reasons don't matter. You love your job. I don't anymore. I am ready for a change and this whole…_incident_ was simply the catalyst.'

'I do love my job… but not as much as I love you.'

'You're getting your verbs confused, John. You assured me yesterday, in very clear terms, that you _hate_ me. And do stop this – it's not like you to be dramatic. You should leave.'

He turned away to look out at the city through the French windows when he heard a gasp behind him.

'Oh god! _That_ is why you dropped this. Because I said I _hate_ you. Sherlock!'

Sherlock was still looking out at London when he spoke.

'I am truly sorry for what I did. I never…ever…meant to hurt you or force myself on you. I _am_ sorry John. But please, you should leave now. There is nothing more to say. Please see yourself out.'

He turned and walked to his bedroom, not looking at John and was about to shut the door when it was stopped by a hand.

'No, I won't leave! You have to know! I hated you because I was never enough for you!'

Sherlock refusal to respond only made John plough on.

'Irene, Victor and god knows if there were others. John Watson just wasn't enough for the great Sherlock Holmes who could have _anyone_ he wanted.'

'You were always enough for me, John.' Sherlock's quiet voice rang with the truth of his words. John's argument stumbled but he persisted.

'Oh really? Why did you go to them if you had me, if I _was_ really enough?'

'If you thought I was sleeping with them, why did you never confront me? You chose to believe _rumours_ and _gossip_ over asking _me_ if they were true. You didn't trust me.'

'I _saw_ you with Irene, alright? I _saw_ you kissing in your office!'

'And exactly how long did you tarry after you saw that? Did you stay long enough to see me push her away? She is our…the firm's biggest client in this sector. I couldn't simply _shove_ her away. Yes, she was attracted to me and yes, she kissed me. But I did not kiss her back. Had you asked me, I would have told you.'

'And Victor? You gave him all the plum assignments that I wanted and that you _knew_ I could handle…because _you_ had trained me! I was ready, Sherlock, but you held me back! Suddenly Victor was your chosen one and John Watson was relegated to the role of a fuck-toy to service you on evenings and weekends when you might feel lonely. And when I refused you, you slept with him.'

'What!'

'Oh, sorry, I shouldn't believe rumours and gossip. _Did_ you sleep with him? He said you did so I'm _asking_ you now.'

'I never slept with Victor. Ever. He made a pass at me at the Christmas party. I told him I was seeing someone. And that was it.'

Once more, the unqualified truth of Sherlock's words hung heavy in the room. John felt his moral outrage shrink. He felt his ego shrink.

'He said you have a tattoo above your nipple. He was very specific – right nipple, he said.'

Sherlock undid the top four buttons of his shirt and pulled it open to show John his bare chest. His beautiful, bare and unsullied chest on which there was no tattoo. Not above the left nipple and not above the right.

'Only lies need detail.'

_Fuck. I'm an idiot._

'You never asked me to stay. But you wouldn't let me go…'

'I _couldn't_ let you go…don't you see?' Sherlock's broken voice tore at John's final arguments and he felt wretched for what he was doing to this man. This man he had loved. And still did. But he _had_ to know the truth of his feelings.

'What do you mean?'

'Think, John! Each of those assignments would require you to be overseas for months at a stretch. If you took them, it would mean you'd leave me…and I didn't want to think of a time when you wouldn't be with me…'

'What are you saying?'

'I'm not saying anything. This whole discussion is moot. You should leave.'

'No! I'm not going anywhere till you spill your _goddamn_ guts out to me. We finish this today.'

Sherlock's shivering sigh and ragged voice clawed at John. He sounded damaged and debilitated, as though he was giving up on the fight.

'You were _hungry_. Hungry for success, for fame. Your career trajectory was almost vertical. And you were so good I couldn't have stopped you if I tried. But I _never_ wanted to stop you. Ever. Every success you had felt like my own, because you were...you were my…John. I just wanted you to…never leave…me.'

'Sherlock…Sherlock…oh god!'

'The other Account Managers were satisfied with their portfolios. And the national projects I gave you were all more prestigious and financially larger than any Victor was assigned but that wasn't enough for you. You wanted to go _inter_national. And why not? Your star was on the rise, you have the teeth and the smarts for the job. England wasn't enough for you anymore. And neither, apparently, was I. You convinced me when you said you hated me. So I let you go.'

The room was quiet but for the soft whisper of a summer breeze playing with the curtains and the heavy breathing of two anguished men.

'Wilkes looked out for you, didn't he? AVP of Asia-Pac is very impressive. And of course, you deserve it. Does it make you happy, John?'

'Apparently it doesn't, because I resigned today.'

'You resigned? Why? That's just idiotic. You now have everything you want! Everything you said I kept from you.'

'But I don't have _you_!'

Gray eyes snapped to his face and bored into John's, shocked, incredulous and laced with the smallest touch of hope.

'Stop this, John. Just leave.'

'Sherlock, you probably…no, you _definitely_ hate me after what I put you through. I regret everything that happened and if I could turn back time, I would do so many things differently. But you need to understand that everything I did, I did because I was hurt. Not very adult of me, I know. But _please_ tell me…do I still matter to you?'

He felt the soft nudge of an unspoken _Must I spell everything out?_

'Yes.'

'Do you feel anything for me, Sherlock? Do I mean _anything_ to you?'

'Hmph… Any idiot can see that you mean everything to me', Sherlock muttered.

'_Everything_? Did you just admit you _love_ me?'

An uncomfortable shuffling of feet and clenching of hands preceded a nervous clearing of a throat that needed no clearing.

'Not in so many words, but yes.'

'Sherlock…please, don't toy with me. I'm here, standing before you, telling you that you are more important to me than any stupid _job_ or career. More important than anything or anyone else. Please, tell me. I need to hear you say it.'

When Sherlock said nothing, John snapped.

'Would it kill you to say it in _so many words_?'

'I don't know! I haven't tried', Sherlock said in a petulant voice that left John unable to decide whether he wanted to punch Sherlock or kiss him.

'Goddamnit, Sherlock! Do you want me to beg? Tell me you love me, you bastard!'

'You fling invectives at me and expect a declaration of affection?'

'Fuck you, Sherlock!' The despair underscoring those bitter words shattered Sherlock's reluctance and he sighed heavily.

'I love you, John.' he capitulated. His last remaining shields clattered to the floor. John could mortally wound his heart if he so chose.

'Fuck you, Sherlock', John repeated, tired, with no rancour this time.


	8. This is the End

**This is the End **

* * *

Chapter Summary: Bring on the fluff...oh, so much sweetness :)

Acknowledgements: Translations provided by LunaticFrenchFangirl on AO3. THANK YOU SO MUCH!

* * *

_'I love you, John.' he capitulated. All his shields clattered to the floor. John could mortally wound his heart if he so chose._

_'Fuck you, Sherlock', John repeated, tired, with no rancour this time._

'Joh….' Sherlock began to demur but his words were cut off by a mouth crushing itself against his own as John ran his arms around Sherlock's back to draw him close while his hands pulled his tall mentor's head down to his own.

'Sherlock…Sherlock…I love you…I love you…' he moaned against those beautiful lips that used to be his to claim when he wanted and then weren't and now were his to own again. 'Say it again, please. Don't hide away from me. No more. Please don't, please don't.'

'John…' a deep voice breathed into John's mouth and he smelled – no, tasted - wine, tobacco and Sherlock. Strong arms tightened and held him close when his legs turned to liquid and the room spun around him as he lost himself in the intoxicant that was Sherlock.

His lover pulled back to look at him but John kissed him again and was pushed onto the bed in which he had spent countless nights losing himself to the man above him; his eyes closed as his tall lover draped his body over John's and that beautiful face pressed into his neck. And then Sherlock began to speak, warm breaths huffing against John's skin, each syllable from his lover's lips slowly streaming, unimpeded and simultaneously, to John's cock and the pleasure centre in his brain, via his heart.

'Je t'aime, John. J'ai eu envie de toi le jour où tu es entré la première fois dans mon bureau, si jeune, si pur. Et je t'aime depuis le jour où tu t'es donné à moi.'  
_(I love you, John. I wanted you the day you first walked into my office, so young, so untouched. I have loved you since the day you gave yourself to me.)_

'Oh god, Sherlock…oh god…'

'Je crois que j'ai toujours su que nous étions faits pour être ensemble, John. J'ai ma place en toi et tu as ta place en moi. Je t'aime. Il n'y a eu personne d'autre pour moi après toi. Je t'aime. Je t'aime. Tellement. Mais tu m'as quitté.'  
_(I think I always knew we belonged together, John. I belong in you and you belong in me. I love you. There has been no one else for me since you. I love you. I love you. So much. But you left me.)_

Warm lips parted to huff a searing trail of kisses down John's neck and paused on his collarbone.

'Es-tu vraiment revenu vers moi maintenant ? Vas-tu rester, cette fois ? Ne me quitte pas. Ne me quitte plus. Je t'aime. Je t'aime. Je t'aime.'  
_(Have you really come back to me now? Will you stay, this time? Don't leave me. Don't leave me again. I love you. I love you. I love you.)_

An undignified whimper escaped John as long fingers undid the top two buttons of his shirt and a tongue darted out to lick a wet stripe all along his collarbone from neck to shoulder. John's fingers dug into Sherlock's arms as the aural vibrations flared through his nerves, the words burning through him into his heart, his brain, his soul.

'Mon cœur t'appartient. Je t'aime. Mon amour. Mon amour. Mon John. Oserais-je espérer que tu ressens la même chose ?'  
_(My heart belongs to you. I love you. My love. My love. My John. Dare I hope that you feel the same?)_

The sinful lips had found their way to his nipple and as these declarations of love fell wetly on his electrified flesh, over and over, he wondered if it was possible to die from love. He had expected Sherlock to crash into him and own him in his typical, peremptory way but this was no overpowering attack. This was a halting and delicate invasion of John's senses; he felt the hate he had diligently fabricated to protect himself from his mentor thawed by Sherlock's sweet admissions and his wounded lover's words flooded him like molten love wrapping its calming arms around his own bruised heart, a salve to make him whole again.

And then those lips kissed back up his neck to reach his lips, drawing him into a broken, grieving kiss, still cautious in their soft presses, as if expecting to be driven away at any moment. And John at once marveled at and despised his ability to reduce Sherlock Holmes, the supreme and untouchable Sherlock Holmes, to this – a lovelorn man unable to believe that his love had actually returned to him. And John's heart broke for his love.

'Je t'aime aussi, Sherlock. S'il te plaît pardonne-moi, mon amour. Mon amour. Mon seul amour. Je t'aime. Tellement. Tellement', he whispered against Sherlock's lips.  
_(I love you too, Sherlock. Please forgive me, my love. My love. My only love. I love you. So much. So much.)_

A tousled head pulled away from his, the beautiful face betraying Sherlock's surprise at hearing John respond in French.

'Je parle le français, espèce d'adorable cinglé. Je ne te l'ai simplement pas dit. Je ne comprenais pas pourquoi tu ne voulais jamais me dire ce que tu ressentais. Craignais-tu que je ne ressente pas la même chose ? Eh bien, tu peux arrêter, parce que je t'aime, Sherlock. Je t'aime. Je t'aime. Tellement, nom de Dieu. Tu m'as détruit pour qui que ce soit d'autre. Je ne peux penser à être avec quelqu'un d'autre que toi, espèce de fumier magnifique. Je suis revenu vers toi maintenant. Je resterai cette fois. Je ne te quitterai plus jamais. Jamais. Je t'aime. Je t'aime, Sherlock. Mon cœur t'appartient aussi. Je t'aime. Mon amour. Mon amour. Mon Sherlock.'  
_(I speak French, you lovely nutter. I just didn't tell you I did. I couldn't understand why you would never tell me how you felt. Were you worried I didn't feel the same way? Well, you can stop because I love you, Sherlock. I love you. I love you. So goddamn much. You've destroyed me for anyone else. I can't think of being with anyone else but you, you beautiful bastard. I have come back to you now. I will stay this time. I will never leave you again. Never. I love you. I love you, Sherlock. My heart belongs to you too. I love you. My love. My love. My Sherlock.)_

Sherlock's eyes stung and his watery smile struggled to decide if it was happy or tender or overwhelmed and somehow managed to convey all three sentiments in a confused but thoroughly endearing way that all but wrecked John. He pulled his mad mentor into a crushing embrace, smothering him with kisses and licks and whispered words of love till language left him.

'And if you want me come before you touch me, seduce me in French. Bastard. You don't know what it does to me. It's a miracle I haven't come already.'

His reward was Sherlock falling over him, his pale body jerking as he laughed incredulously against John's chest. If John felt his skin get a little damp, he didn't say anything because his own cheeks glistened.

'I love you, John. I love you. Do you believe me?'

'I do, my love.'

And they kissed for a long time. And touched and stroked and sighed. And kissed again, speaking soft words of apology, of hope, of tenderness, confessing everything they hadn't been able to for two years. They searched each other's eyes for proof of those words and found it shining so bright they couldn't believe they had missed it. They kissed again and pulled away, their fingers still threaded and caressing their palms and knuckles.

And then John laughed, shattering the gravitas of the moment. 'I never thought I'd call you _my love_ and not cringe. But you _are_ my love. And I'm a bloody sap and it's your fault. I'm fucking addicted to your lips and your words, your arms, your beautiful fingers, your beautiful body, your eyes, your legs, your thighs, your knees, your toes, your mouth, that wicked tongue, your lips, your lips, oh god, your lips…' his voice tapered off as he ogled said lips, shamelessly licking his own lasciviously.

'Thank you…I suppose. But…um…what about my…um…cock-and-my-bum?' Sherlock mumbled, his hurried words tumbling over each other awkwardly at the end; he sounded genuinely disappointed that the two parts of his body which they both knew were particularly splendid had not featured in John's impromptu treatise on his physical beauty.

'Well, yes, I was getting to your cock and your _bum_. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for your _very_ lovely cock and bum. I could suck you and fuck you all day, you sexy fiend', he said with a laugh, gazing into Sherlock's hungry eyes as his lover greedily drank in his words. And then John's eyes darkened as his mood changed.

He leaned forward to kiss Sherlock and whispered against his lips 'I'm not kidding, Sherlock. I want you. I want to have sex with you tonight. Do you…would you…uh?'

His breath hitched, nervous, as he waited for his lover to speak.

'John…oh god, will you fuck me? Do you want to?'

John drew Sherlock's hand down to his crotch and pressed it against his painfully hard erection.

'What does this tell you? Take your clothes off. Please! I want to touch you. God, Sherlock. How I've waited to touch you.'

Sherlock was off John in an instant and quickly stripped down to his boxers while John did the same.

'All off, please', John ordered.

Sherlock obeyed and pushed his boxers to his ankles and stepped out of them.

'You beautiful man. What have I done to deserve you? After everything I put you through. Sherlock…I'm so sor-'

'Shh…You came back to me, John. That's all that matters. I love you. And I can't seem to stop saying it. I love you.'

'Then don't. I want to hear it. Every day.'

'I love you. I love you', Sherlock whispered into John's neck as he traced a wet trail down John's torso with his lips and tongue, rediscovering his younger lover's body, tasting his skin, imbibing his scent, familiar and yet new, sucking on sweet nipples that perked up when he licked and nibbled on them. And then Sherlock pulled off abruptly and raised his head.

'John…would you mind terribly if we made love later? Right now, I just want you inside me. I can't wait, John. I can't…'

'No, you adorable, posh git!' John laughed. 'I wouldn't mind terribly and I am as eager to be inside you!'

John reached for the lube as Sherlock lay on the bed on his back, spreading his thighs. John doused his fingers with the slick fluid and inserted a finger into Sherlock's hole, all the way in in a single, smooth move. Sherlock hissed at the burn but John simply apologized, pulled out and pushed it back in with a second finger.

'Unnhhh! John! Oh god!'

'I'm sorry, love. I'm sorry. I got carried away.'

'No, don't stop. I can take it. One more, one more…'

John added a third finger and spent the next few agonizing minutes stretching Sherlock as gently and slowly as he could manage, his trembling fingers scissoring inside Sherlock's wall, the muscles tantalizingly clamping around his slick digits, heralding a hypnotic repeat of that sensation around his cock. With a groan he pulled his fingers out.

'Are you ready, Sherlock? I've got to have you. Now!'

'I'm ready. I'm ready. Oh god, John…Take me, my love.'

John amazed even himself with the dexterity and speed with which he rolled on a condom, slicked it up and readied himself at Sherlock's entrance.

'Look at me, love. I'm going to be inside you again. I love you, Sherlock. It's only you for me.'

And with that, he entered Sherlock. Their eyes locked with each other; gray spoke to blue where words fell short. And today words were truly inadequate to express everything they wanted to say.

'John…my love…', Sherlock whispered, his hands running over the tensed muscles in John's arms as they held him above his lover. 'John…my…my love…do you know?'

'I know, my sweet love, and I feel it too. This', he dipped his head to kiss Sherlock above his heart, 'is mine. It's mine, isn't it? Tell me it is…tell me…'

'My heart, yours to own', Sherlock surrendered his heart to John. 'And yours? Do I have it?'

'You've had it since the day you first took me, Sherlock. It's only been you since then. Only you.'

'I love you…I love you…I love you…Take me, John. Show me you love me…'

'Oh…oh…' John moaned and began thrusting into Sherlock. It didn't take very long before their undulating hips brought them both to the edge and the fires of their shared passion singed their distrust and hurt while the soothing gusts of their renewed love blew away those charred remains, leaving only a pair of burnished hearts to be held carefully and loved tenderly. Forever.


	9. Epilogue

**Epilogue **

* * *

Chapter Summary: Because the end is never really the end, is it? Not until one of them has proposed marriage :)

* * *

A month later, on a lazy Sunday morning

'So, what do we do now?' John asked as he fell back onto his pillow, panting.

'I should be good to go again in twenty minutes', a deep muffled voice responded.

'Not sex, you git! Get your head out of the gutter.'

'I wouldn't refer to your thighs as the gutter, John. They are very lovely, warm thighs and my head enjoys every minute it spends in their company.'

'And my thighs return the sentiment, Sherlock, thank you. But please, come up here.'

A tousled head emerged from under the duvet and John immediately pulled Sherlock down to kiss him.

'I meant - what do we do with our lives now?' he asked with a fond smile.

'We live together, we have sex, we watch movies, we read, we have sex, we sleep, we cook together, we have sex, we travel, we have sex. What else?' Sherlock looked genuinely puzzled.

'While that _does_ sound wonderful, we're going to get on each other's nerves soon, the money's going to run out at some point and we'll probably end up killing each other. Also, you and I still have a lot of mileage in us.'

'What are you suggesting?'

'I'm suggesting we start our own firm.'

'You mean Holmes&Watson advertising?'

'Or Watson&Holmes', John smiled and thought for a bit. 'OK, Holmes&Watson is fine. I can't say age before beauty because you trump me in both departments. I like it. Holmes&Watson. Mentor and protégé.'

'Partners and lovers', Sherlock corrected him. 'Alright, Holmes&Watson it is.'

His lips went back to their chosen task of undoing John inch by inch and John's mind and body happily returned to the edge of pleasantly-sexed-out and cheerfully advanced towards the region of tumble-into-a-sea-of-pleasure-and-bliss-with-the-love-of-my-life when Sherlock mumbled against his skin.

'Incidentally, corporations owned by spouses are subject to more favourable tax rules.'

John almost suffered whiplash from the speed with which the innocuous pronouncement snapped him back into fully-alert territory.

He smiled and pulled his mad lover's head up for a kiss. He had planned on a quick, chaste peck on the lips but Sherlock's tongue made a moist and filthy appearance against the seam of John's lips and soon they were panting and sighing, running their hands through their hair and down their necks as their lips and tongues pressed and glided and collided, licking and rediscovering the bliss of kissing each other.

'Did you uh…fuck, Sherlock, you could make me come from just your kisses. I love you. I love you, you wild…beautiful thing.'

Sherlock's usually dark expression relaxed in a small smile of triumph. They caught their breath, bumping their noses lovingly and dropping soft kisses on cheeks, temples, foreheads, John making sure to kiss anywhere except the lips to avoid a repeat detour into a long and sloppy kiss.

'Back to my question', John smiled. 'Did you just ask me to marry you?'

'Not in so many words, but what if I did?'

'What's with you and so many words? You shall, henceforth, be known as Sherlock Obfuscation Holmes.'

They laughed and kissed.

'_Anyway_', John grumbled and got back to his point, 'If you did, I would have something to say about it.'

'What?'

'Ask me and I'll tell you.'

'Will you marry me, John?'

'Try and stop me, Sherlock.'

'I wouldn't dream of it.'

'Would you dream of me?' John asked shyly.

'I only dream of you.'

FIN


End file.
